‘Here it comes, you bastard,’ Ben sobbed. ‘Here it is, leech. Here it is for you.’
He brought the hammer down again. Blood splashed upward in a cold gush, blinding him momentarily. Barlow’s head lashed from side to side on the satin pillow.
He brought the hammer down again and again. Blood burst from Barlow’s nostrils. His body began to jerk in the coffin like a stabbed fish. The hands clawed at Ben’s cheeks, pulling long gouges in his skin.
He brought the hammer down on the stake once more, and the blood that pulsed from Barlow’s chest turned black.
Then, dissolution.
It came in the space of two seconds, too fast to ever be believed in the daylight of later years, yet slow enough to recur again and again in nightmares, with awful stopmotion slowness.
The skin yellowed, coarsened, blistered like old sheets of canvas. The eyes faded, filmed white, fell in. The hair went white and fell like a drift of feathers. The body inside the dark suit shriveled and retreated. The mouth widened gapingly as the lips drew back and drew back, meeting the nose and disappearing in an oral ring of jutting teeth. The fingernails went black and peeled off, and then there were only bones, still dressed with rings, clicking and clenching like castanets. Dust puffed through the fibers of the linen shirt. The bald and wrinkled head became a skull. The pants, with nothing to fill them out, fell away to broomsticks clad in black silk. For a moment a hideously animated scarecrow writhed beneath him, and Ben lunged out of the coffin with a strangled cry of horror. But it was impossible to tear the gaze away from Barlow’s last metamorphosis; it hypnotized. The fleshless skull whipped from side to side on the satin pillow. The nude jawbone opened in a soundless scream that had no vocal cords to power it. The skeletal fingers danced and clicked on the dark air like marionettes.
Smells struck his nose and then vanished, each in a light little puff: gas; putrescence, horrid and fleshy; a moldy library smell; acrid dust; then nothing. The twisting, protesting finger bones shredded and flaked away like pencils. The nasal cavity of the skull widened and met the oral cavity. The empty eye sockets widened in a fleshless expression of surprise and horror, met, and were no more. The skull caved in like an ancient Ming vase. The clothes settled flat and became as neutral as dirty laundry.
And still there was no end to its tenacious hold on the world - even the dust billowed and writhed in tiny dust devils within the coffin. And then, suddenly, he felt the passage of something which buffeted past him like a strong wind, making him shudder. At the same instant, every window of Eva Miller’s boardinghouse blew outward.
‘Look out, Ben!’ Mark screamed. ‘Look out!’
He whirled over on his back and saw them coming out of the root cellar-Eva, Weasel, Mabe, Grover, and the others. Their time was on the world.
Mark’s screams echoed in his ears like great fire bells, and he grabbed the boy by the shoulders.
Mark’s cries turned to whimpers.
‘Go up the board,’ Ben said. ‘Go on.’ He had to turn the boy to face it, and then slap his bottom to make him climb. When he was sure the boy was going up, he turned back and looked at them, the Undead.
They were standing passively some fifteen feet away, looking at him with a flat hate that was not human.
‘You killed the Master,’ Eva said, and he could almost believe there was grief in her voice. ‘How could you kill the Master?’
‘I’ll be back,’ he told her. ‘For all of you.’
He went up the board, climbing bent over, using his hands. It groaned under his weight, but held. At the top, he spared one glance back down. They were gathered around the coffin now, looking in silently. They reminded him of the people who had gathered around Miranda’s body after the accident with the moving van.
He looked around for Mark, and saw him lying by the porch door, on his face.
50
Ben told himself that the boy had just fainted, and nothing more. It might be true. His pulse was strong and regular. He gathered him in his arms and carried him out to the Citroen.
He got behind the wheel and started the engine. As he pulled out onto Railroad Street, delayed reaction struck him like a physical blow, and he had to stifle a scream.
They were in the streets, the walking dead.
Cold and hot, his head full of a wild roaring sound, he turned left on Jointner Avenue and drove out of ‘salem’s Lot.
Chapter Fifteen
BEN AND MARK
1
Mark woke up a little at a time, letting the Citroen’s steady hum bring him back without thought or memory. At last he looked out the window, and fright took him in rough hands. It was dark. The trees at the sides of the road were vague blurs, and the cars that passed them had their parking lights and headlights on. A gagging, inarticulate groan escaped him, and he clawed at his neck for the cross that still hung there.
‘Relax,’ Ben said. ‘We’re out of town. It’s twenty miles behind us.’
